An Unfortunate Recruitment Advertisement
by Esther-Channah
Summary: The Baudelaires encounter the Joker at a Second Cup Restaurant in Halifax. Crossover with Batman. Originally posted on the Batman board.


Disclaimer: DC owns the Joker. Second Cup owns the poster that inspired this piece. Lemony Snicket owns the Baudelaire orphans, Count Olaf, sundry other minor characters referred to herein and VFD. I own Cousin Renee, a large collection of children's books and comics, and a very strange imagination. This story is what happens when all of these elements combine.

A/N: The Joker's opinions on Halifax, and the Halifax Explosion of 1917 are in no way meant to be construed as those of the author. I usually try to situate my stories as much within continuity/reality as possible, changing only what must be changed for story purposes. What that means is that, because Second Cup is a Canadian chain of coffee shops (think Starbucks), with no locations outside Canada, I had to take this story out of Gotham. Because I needed to give Joker an excuse to be outside Gotham and north of the border, I had to use a Canadian city with a) a genuine annual comedy festival, and b) English language signage. Sorry, Montreal! However, I have never been to Halifax. I'm using what I can get from a Google search to set the scene. And for the record, there really _is_ a Second Cup located in Scotia Square. I checked.

Continuity: After the "Pushback" arc in Gotham Knights. After _The Grim Grotto_ for the Snicket Characters.

**An Unfortunate Recruitment Advertisement**

_From the official Halifax website_ _: Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada is a modern port city teeming with culture and heritage and the perfect place for your next holiday vacation. The entire Halifax region delights with its impressive array of entertainment, museums, galleries, historic sites, fine restaurants, colorful gardens and lively nightlife… __blahblahblah_. The man in the purple suit strode casually through the downtown commercial district, turning right at the corner of Brunswick and Duke.

_Impressive entertainment?_ He sneered. No bombs, except, apparently, for _one_—yes, folks, that's right—_one_ explosion back in 19_17_! No colorful characters playfully hijacking screaming crowds. More to the point, no Batman.

_Teeming with culture and heritage?_ Sure, maybe he'd take in a museum—Not! The Army Museum might have an impressive array of old weaponry but was sadly lacking in gas pellets, flamethrowers, and acid-spritzers. And the canisters of mustard gas on display were _empty_!

He was here—why was he here? After Hush had torn everything away from him he had retreated to the amusement park that he had purchased… or stolen? Squatted on? So many different ways to remember. Some of them might even be accurate. He'd had some fun times, here, back when he'd first taken possession, but now… the empty cage that had housed the lone freak exhibit, the photo display in the rollercoaster house, now bare of portraits, the two animal riders, that rocked on their creaky springs when he slapped the aluminum casings. Hadn't there been someone sitting on one for the longest time? He thought so but couldn't be sure. It had all been so long ago… hours, years, seconds, decades… who cared? It wasn't now. Now was a deserted dump of a fun park inhabited by hobbits in black leather with shaved skulls and mohawks. No food, no potable water, no money… no _fun_.

He'd needed a vacation, he mused. Hush had just seized Gotham out from under him. He had nothing but the name of the man who had murdered his wife all those years ago… if he'd had a wife. But then, a glance at the travel ads in the _Gotham Herald_ had shown him a promotion for the comedy festival in Halifax, Nova Scotia. _Ha!ifax_, they'd spelled it. Cute. Clever. Definitely not funny. Ah, well. Maybe the entertainment would be better. In super-polite, squeaky-clean Canada? Was he crazy? _No, the fact that they send my fan-mail to Arkham Asylum is pure coinky-dink._

He should be trying to find Oliver Hammet, the cop who had killed his darling wife, and their unborn child… now what was her name, again? Who cared? She was the love of his life and Hammet had killed her. He should be trying to reclaim his mantle from Hush—taking back Gotham with an army of munchkin minions running before him to herald his arrival. Instead he was crossing state lines and international boundaries on a momentary whim to attend a three-day comedy festival in a city he'd never been, where they used dollar bills all different colors—like Monopoly money but worse. And _coins_ instead of paper for ones and twos! Loonies and twonies, he'd heard people call them, did they mean the coins, or the people who'd come up with the idea in the first place? Coming here was insane. Precisely. That was the reason he was on the other side of the Canada-US Border. Smartest move he could have made.

It had taken most of the play money he had on him to pay for the hotel room. After he'd paid for tickets for the venues, he had enough left to either pick up some groceries… or buy enough chemicals to whip up a quick-and-cheap version of his patented (not really, but only because he hadn't thought to get Tetch to "hat" the patent clerk when he'd had a chance) Joker toxin. Decisions, decisions. Batman was hundreds of miles too far away to try to stop him, if he went with the toxin… but where was the fun in that? Why kill with no big humorless muscle-bound jerk to tick off?

He looked around. He was standing on the corner of Duke and Barrington streets, facing a large shopping complex. "Scotia Square," read the sign over the mall doors. On a sudden impulse, he went inside.

* * *

"I still don't see why Kit Snicket sent us here, Violet," Klaus said as he wiped down the marble counter. Violet removed the plastic juice cups from the basin and dumped the water in the sink. She pulled a fresh bag of ice chips out of the freezer, tore it open and refilled the bowl. 

"Isn't it better being here with cousin Renee, than in the clutches of Count Olaf?" Violet replied with a shudder. "Or back at the Prufrock Preparatory School with Carmelita Spats calling us 'cakesniffers' again?"

"In!" Sunny piped up, which probably meant something along the lines of 'or stuck in Esme Squalor's terrible, albeit highly fashionable apartment.' She was polishing the brass fixtures running the length of the counter.

(If you have not yet met the Baudelaire orphans, I can only assume that up until now, you have lived a happy and contented existence. That is about to change. While it cannot be denied that the three Baudelaires are clever, quick-witted, imaginative, and resourceful, neither can it be denied that bad luck follows these children in much the same way that Alfred Pennyworth follows Bruce Wayne's instructions vis-à-vis the day-to-day running of Stately Wayne Manor. In other words, to the utmost degree possible. If you wish to retain your cheery, optimistic outlook, I would strongly suggest that you take your computer mouse and point-click on your browser-back button to get you out of this story. If your aim is to persist, doubtless due to some masochistic streak, in reading further, I suppose I shall have to tell you briefly something about these three shlimazels, in the hope of getting you to reconsider.

Violet, recently turned fifteen, is the eldest of the Baudelaires. She is, quite possibly, the most skilled inventor under the age of majority that you are ever likely to encounter. You can tell when she is thinking about inventing something new, when she ties her long hair up in a ribbon. Her brother, Klaus, is thirteen. Since he was a mere toddler, he has read everything and anything that he could get his hands upon. More importantly, he remembers anything and everything that he reads. Lastly, we come to the baby of the family. Sunny Baudelaire is not yet two years old. She has been gifted with four very sharp teeth, which are perfect for biting—well—pretty nearly everything. Although her speech is not understood very well by outsiders, the two older Baudelaires have no problems comprehending her meaning. These skills, while undeniably useful, have, thus far, not allowed the Baudelaires to evade their former guardian, Count Olaf for any period of time. And the greedy count will stop at nothing to get his hands upon the three orphans, and the large fortune which they will inherit once Violet comes of age.

After reading the above, you have doubtless taken my very wise advise and chosen to read a different story—possibly one involving cute cuddly woodland critters, or little blue men in white hats and pants who pass their days merrily singing "La, la, la, la, la, la." If not, never say that I failed to warn you. Any depression, which you might suffer as a consequence of your persistence in reading onward is entirely of your own doing. And now, back to the story.)

Klaus sighed, "I suppose you're right," he said. It's just that Cousin Renee is constantly running off to one meeting or another and leaving us to run this Second Cup coffee franchise, all by ourselves.

Violet nodded. "I know," she said, pouring Fazenda Vista Alegre, a Portuguese term which here means 'a somewhat pricy medium dark coffee imported from Brazil,' into the labeled bin. "But you have to admit she _is _trying to make things easier on us. I mean she's had that big recruitment poster hanging in the window, and another one behind the cash for over a week, now.

Klaus looked behind him at the poster, which stated in bold black letters: **How would you like to be responsible for creating hundreds of smiles, today?** "It would put a smile on _my_ face," he remarked, "if someone were to come in and apply for the position. Then I could get back to reading about how to avoid people who try to track you down when you don't want to be tracked."

"And _I_," returned Violet, "might have time to invent something that would help the members of V.F.D. on the _right_ side of the schism protect themselves from Count Olaf's habit of causing immense conflagrations," a long word which here means 'very bad fires like the one that burned down the Baudelaire mansion while our parents were still inside, leaving us orphans at the mercy of outright villains like Count Olaf and Esme, or well-meaning bumbling fools like Mr. Poe or Aunt Josephine.'

"Coffeeyum!" said Sunny, which meant of course 'And _I_ would have time to bite into the chocolate-covered-espresso beans which are also sold here, and I'm sure cousin Renee wouldn't mind.'

At that moment, a throat cleared behind them. The three Baudelaire orphans turned as one to see a very tall man lounging in the doorway. Three sets of eyes widened. Three jaws dropped. The man had chalk-white skin, and blood-red lips. He was wearing a purple trench coat, but that wasn't what surprised the children. What surprised the children was that the matching purple foldaway Panama fedora couldn't quite conceal the _green_ curly hair hanging down around his ears. "Napier," gulped Sunny, which could have meant 'I think this guy may be trouble, siblings.'

"Is the manager available?" the man asked with a smile.

'I don't like that smile,' Violet thought to herself. 'It makes me think of the Big Bad Wolf in _Little Red Riding Hood, _**after **he'd already gobbled up the grandmother.' Still, appearances could sometimes be deceiving. She forced herself to smile back. "I'm afraid not," she replied. "C-can we help you with anything?"

Violet wouldn't have thought it possible for the grin on the man's face to get wider. And toothier.

'That smile scares me,' Klaus thought to himself. 'It reminds me of the wicked magician in _Aladdin_, right when he thought Aladdin was going to hand over the magic lamp.' He shuddered.

"Well," the man said, "perhaps you can. That sign you have—'How would you like to be responsible for creating hundreds of smiles, today,' hmmm? I think I may be just the man you're looking for. Why on a good day, I can create _thousands_."

"Funcoot!" Sunny said, which meant "This guy's nuttier than Count Olaf."

"I see," said Violet, her polite smile frozen on her face. "Klaus, the applications should be behind the counter. Could you get one?"

Just then, Sunny belched. "Meaculp," she said, red-faced. Violet looked down at her little sister, aghast.

"Sunny! You _ate_ the applications?"

"Chaw," she replied softly, which meant that she had been looking for something different to bite, and the applications had been handy.

Violet sighed. "Very well Mr—"

"Kerr," the man supplied. "Joseph Kerr. My friends call me 'Joe.'"

Violet pointed to an empty booth, which wasn't difficult as every booth and seat in the restaurant was currently empty. "Klaus, have you ever read any books on how to conduct a job interview?"

Klaus nodded. Violet handed him a pen and a pile of napkins. "Just take down the information and cousin Renee can look it over when she comes back." Klaus approached Mr. Kerr's booth with some trepidation—which means as he might have approached Uncle Monty's Incredibly Deadly Viper, before he found out that the snake's moniker was really a misnomer and that the snake was actually quite friendly and harmless. He sat down across from Mr. Kerr, and set the napkins on the table, trying to remember what questions he was supposed to ask.

"So, Mr. Kerr," he began, "Tell me about yourself."

"I'm," the man thought for a moment, "well, I suppose you might say I'm a chemist—or a chef. I'm an extremely creative person, you understand. Always coming up with wonderful new blends and concoctions. Just to inhale their wonderful aromas usually brings wide smiles."

Klaus nodded, uncertainly, and jotted the reply down on the napkin. "Do you have any actual work experience?" he asked.

"I think so."

Klaus paused. "You _think_ so, Mr. Kerr?"

The man nodded mournfully. "I've been ill for such a very long time, you see. I think I was working in security at a factory—yes, yes now that I think of it I'm sure I was a security guard."

"And where was this, Mr. Kerr?"

"I don't know."

"I see." Klaus put down the pen. "Thank you, very much for your time, Mr. Kerr. I'll have the manager contact you if she wishes to proceed further. Good day."

He got up as if to go, but was stopped short when the man seized the front of his shirt in a purple-gloved grip. "Say, Boy, you weren't just trying to brush me off, right now, were you?" Mr. Kerr pulled him forward. Suddenly, that smile looked a lot more menacing.

"N-no! O-of course not, Mr. Kerr," Klaus stammered. Just then he remembered a time a few years ago when he had gone to the public library and amused himself reading the out-of-town papers. There had been a photograph of someone looking very much like this man on the front page of the _Gotham City Post_. Klaus gulped. Where was Count Olaf when you actually needed him? "I'm sorry," he continued. "I'm just very… new… at this. In fact you are the first person I've ever interviewed. So, you probably noticed I left out a few of the questions. By accident, of course! If you could please let go, I'll be happy to go back and ask them."

Mr. Kerr relaxed his grip. "Sorry, I'm a wee bit jumpy, my boy," he said, settling down. Yes, by all means, _do_ continue."

"Ocky?" said a voice at Klaus' knee. Sunny was standing there with an order pad and pen, asking if they wanted anything to drink. Her timing couldn't be worse.

"Sunny!" Klaus exclaimed. If this really was the Joker, there was no telling what the man would do to his little sister. He had to get her away, fast. "Can't you see we're busy?" he snapped. "Go back to—" He stopped. "On second thought, Sunny, wait."

He turned to the Joker. "Mr. Kerr, as you know, this is a coffee shop, and as such, many of our customers ask us to recommend appropriate blends. Now, I don't know if this is the normal way to conduct an interview, but it seems to me that you can't recommend a coffee if you don't know what it tastes like. So what I think I'm going to ask my sister to do is get us a few different varieties—say five of them, for you to try. Because, if you don't like our coffee, Mr. Kerr, I don't think you'd be able to sell our coffee. Does that make sense to you?"

The Joker waved a hand broadly. "By all means, boyo!"

Klaus nodded. Taking the order pad from Sunny, he wrote:

authentic mocha Java

pluma Oaxaca

Kenya Estate AA

El Toucan

Royal Blend

Make sure to call Cousin Renee and tell her to deduct half the total cost of 18.22 and get out the napkins, sugar and creamer first.

"May I see that a moment?" The man asked tightly.

Klaus handed the paper over, hoping that the underlining was faint enough to escape notice. Apparently, it was. The Joker frowned, suspicious, but passed it back.

Klaus continued to pose questions, writing down the answers mechanically, and pretending not to notice when he saw Violet's face grow white behind the counter as she grabbed Sunny and beat a hasty retreat through the emergency fire exit. The police arrived about ten minutes later, to haul the protesting Joker away.

* * *

It was perhaps an hour afterwards that Kit Snicket came into the shop with Cousin Renee in tow. "I heard about the excitement you kids had, this morning," Kit said with a sad smile. "Once it hits the six o'clock news, Count Olaf will hear it, too. We have to get you children away from here, now."

Violet nodded. "We'll pack."

"No time for that, now," Cousin Renee said nervously. "They might already be watching. You should have been more careful, children. Ever so _much _more careful!"

Klaus bit his tongue to keep from asking whether either of them could have come up with a better way to free themselves and their siblings from the clutches of a homicidal maniac—a term which means 'a person so thoroughly bent on murder that, by comparison he would make Count Olaf appear to be a likely candidate for the next Nobel Peace Prize'. He took Violet's hand in his left, and Sunny's in his right, and allowed Kit to herd them toward an ominous-looking black limousine.

The Baudelaires had no idea where they would go next, but they had some inkling that it was unlikely to involve cutesy woodland critters, nor happy singing little blue men. Kit Snicket closed the rear door behind them, got into the driver's seat, and turned on the motor.


End file.
